


Morirò Da Re

by sleazyjanet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Swap AU, F/M, M/M, Sad, all in other people's povs, but like, it's them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-10 20:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20534381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleazyjanet/pseuds/sleazyjanet
Summary: Three times Aziraphale and Crowley manage to trick Heaven and Hell, and one time they can't.





	Morirò Da Re

**Author's Note:**

> HII it's me, a rat, and i would very much like to apologize for what you're about to read. but i hope you do anyway.   
this is the body swap au for the fifth day of the #gomensficweek2019
> 
> shoutout to the msfc ofc!
> 
> notes at the end, too

**I — Anathema and Newt**

  
  


"I just want to fully understand who those two are, you know? Doesn't it bother you not knowing whether the two dudes who randomly showed up with that odd couple are human, or something else?" Newt shrugs. His girlfriend's frantic pacing doesn't bother him too much, but currently he is too preoccupied with the newspapers he's trying to read to find out what the rest of the world is up to, and to find out who's getting classified for the UEFA EURO cup — he can't follow the matches on tv, after all — to really bother himself with the two weird dudes either. "I have tried seeing their auras, you know how well I do that, but it wasn't human, and yet they  _ look  _ so human and even speak in such a humanly matter."

Newt raises his eyebrows thoughtfully and pouts his lips, the newspapers discarded momentarily. "The white haired one dresses like a Victorian lord."

"Okay, yes, that's true." She can't really argue with that. "And the ginger dude with fancy glasses that just reappeared in a second seems to walk as if he has no hip bones."

"Yeah," Newt laughs. "He probably didn't know humans had them when he made his own  _ huuuman vessel." _

Anathema looks down at him in surprise and joins in the laughter. Her hand lays on his newspapers, eliciting a hiss from her boyfriend, who taps her hand away and squints at the fourth page, where they finally announce some results.

"I just think we should investigate more, you know?" Newt hums, not really listening. Italy won against Armenia, though he isn't surprised. He'd seen some Italian matches through a window on his neighbour's tv, before it broke when it realized it was being watched by him. "There is something occult about them. I bet they're hiding some secret government information. Or worse. They could tell us what comes  _ after." _

"Nothingness," he chimes in unhelpfully, the news that Greece has lost against Finland settling down in his stomach uncomfortably. He really likes  _ Greece _ and it's _ stories _ . 

"I'm guessing there's Heaven, and Hell, and an in-between, if you believe in these names, but how does the getting-in in either of them happen? " Newt hums. "I'm guessing there's a point system, like on The Good Place."

The man eyes her with a raised eyebrow and the woman sighs, smiling apologetically.

"It's a show I've been watching with Adam and the Them when I come over, sorry," she admits. Upon his crestfallen expression at not being able to join on something like that, she adds, "But you're missing out nothing! It's not even that good."

He'd swear he hears her mutter, ' _ It's more than good, spectacular!' _ , but he lets it slide. Spain has won against Romania, and that pleases him. The newspaper also announces the matches for today, but he doesn't get to read any further as Anathema folds his newspaper in two and he looks up to a deep glare in her black eyes.

"Dear boyfriend, I want to go investigate, right now, and I can use public transport to get to London, or you will drive me," she grits through closed teeth.

He starts and nods frantically. "Let me get my Dick Turpin keys!"

Anathema rolls her eyes at the nickname, but he feels the smile hidden underneath, too, and appreciates it. Before she can scold him for it, he also grabs the newspaper and puts it in the backseat.

The drive takes nearly four hours, because of the car being extremely slow and because of the several pit stops and his own cravings for food. But at last, they enter London and only then does he turn to his girlfriend for a long coming question. "Do you know where to find them exactly?"

Anathema winces. "To be honest, I was hoping I'd have already figured it out. But," she taps on the screen of her phone and smiles, "I looked up oldest buildings in London."

"And you found them?" he asks, genuinely surprised.

"God, no," she scoffs. "There are too many old buildings here. But then I realized that white haired dude struck me as a book lover and somehow that was well and enough for Google, for in no time I found three oldest bookshops and only one with the name Mr. Fell in it."

Newt nods, thoughtfully. "That's his name, then?"

Anathema shrugs. "I'm not sure but it's the only name that sounds remotely, you know, otherworldly. I mean, Fell, you know? He Fell. I bet they're both Fallen angels. Commonly known as demons."

"The white haired dude doesn't dress much like a demon," Newt points out, watching the streets pass before him without much thinking.

"That's a ruse for us not to know he's actually one," she insists and she knows she's won when Newt nods. "Now, I will tell you directions as I don't trust you to touch my phone, really."

For good reason. Last time he touched one, it fell to the floor and immediately broke.  _ Slippery hands, or a curse. _ Either way, he can't hold one anymore.

It's suppertime when they reach the bookshop all the way in Soho, but Anathema insists that the man will open up anyway, because he  _ probably lives there anyway, and there's no point wasting time. _

There's also no point arguing with Anathema's stubbornness and curiosity.

Anathema knocks steadfast, though the sign on the door clearly says  _ CLOSED _ . 

Nobody answers.

"He probably isn't inside," Newt whines, feeling hungry again and wishing for nothing else but to go sit down at a diner and simply enjoy some well earned supper.

"No, I can  _ sense _ him. Well, I think it's him. He's here." And she knocks again, then three times more good measure.

Finally the door opens to reveal a very angry Mr. Fell with fire burning on his palms. "What do you want? The bookshop is  _ closed. _ "

The pair steps back, their eyes wide in horror. "Uh, Mr. Fell, I just—."

"I gave you back the book, what more could you want?"

_ Technically, that was the other dude _ , she means to argue, but something in the man's glare makes her realize there's really no point arguing.

"Honestly, I just had some questions—."

"I've no time."

He makes to close the door, but Anathema stops it with her hand, pleading him with her eyes to let her in. With a sign, the man relents and slithers inside awkwardly, waiting for the both of them to come in before locking the door for good measure.

"What do you want?" he sighs, eyes spread in an almost mock prayer. 

Anathema gulps. There's something on the way he speaks, and moves, and looks at her that makes her feel uncomfortable. There's no more  _ my dear  _ or  _ miss _ and though they had confused her then, she misses them now.

"Well, you see— Ahem, I wanted to ask, because, well, I can see people's auras— I couldn't see Adam's but realized later it was because his was too big to simply  _ see, _ " the man rolls his eyes impatiently, his eyes constantly skimming towards the door as if he's expecting a visitor.  _ Maybe that other dude.  _ "But when I looked at yours, well, it was—."

"My aura?"

"Yes, your aura, Mr. Fell."

"What was it, then?"

Pressured to prove the truth of her statement, she admits, "It was like a white light bulb with a problem on it, a black spot growing on it. I can look at it now, too, see?"

She narrows her eyes and tries to sense it again, but the man instantly slaps the surface of the desk behind him and shakes her out of her daze. "No! Don't do it now!" When she frowns, he growls angrily. "Actually, come think of it, get out, book girl, now. It's nothing personal but I'm, uh, expecting visitors that would probably turn you to ash without an afterthought if they saw you. Or erase all your memories and, trust me, girl, you like your memories intact."

He pushes the pair out almost desperately, cursing himself and his own stupidity when he has to stop to unlock the door.

Anathema uses that moment to see through his aura. It's different now, though. More of a dark circle with a large beating white light bulb inside it.

Briefly, she realizes that's the same one she saw on the other man, though now the white spot is larger.

It doesn't really make sense, not all of it. But as the man locks the door behind them she at least realizes that's probably not Mr. Fell at all. 

"They switched places today. They must be magical creatures and they switched bodies, for some incoming danger."

Newt nods. "Okay. How?"

"I don't know."

And he accepts it. She loves that about him.

  
  
  


**II — Madame Tracy**

  
  


Madame Tracy loves living in her small cottage. She's quite ecstatic, really. She gets to grow her own plants, and to care for stray cats, and to continue some of her better activities such as ghost reading to the most stupid of people in town, and she can't really complain about anything.

Except, perhaps, Mr. Shadwell, but the man is a bother whether he's near or far away. Far away, he gets lost shouting at neighbours and kids down the street, in the house he grumbles about everything that's said on the news, but if she turns it off, he complains, too.

There are some moments, of course, that he smiles, or compliments something she does, and she cherishes those small moments.

She knows she doesn't _ need _ him, near or far, in her house or wherever. But he needs her and she's a lonely woman, well in her sixties. Though she keeps herself looking young, she can't help but feel like she needs  _ any _ kind of company, and who better to give any kind of company than the man who she's known for two decades, now?

It's really only for his own good and her own loneliness, but she doesn't mind it all much either anyway.

At least now that he's been given some instructions, the man doesn't smoke in her house, nor does he drink tea as sugared before, for she reassures him she isn't going to pay him for all those dentist's visits next time he comes down with a toothache — though a  _ full mouth of teeth ache _ would be a more accurate description of it.

She misses her life in the city sometimes, though. And she often wonders what's life like now for that very kind gentleman who had found himself, unguardedly, in her body in a very non sexual though mildly arousing manner.

He had pretty eyes, the man, and a gentle smile though he mostly reserved it for Mr. Crowley.

How Mr. Shadwell came to know that pair separately without ultimately ever knowing they were a couple still surprises her, but Mr. Shadwell has always been a very oblivious fella.

One day, on a quiet afternoon after a few years now, she decides she wants to check up on them and dials the number to Mr. Fell's bookshop (she'd memorized it in the times that Mr. Shadwell used to call his  _ benefactor _ ) almost without thinking.

" _ Hello, who am I speaking to?" _ chirps the man's warm voice and she smiles despite herself. The man's almost angelic demeanor doesn't fail to make her feel important.

_ He speaks as if you matter. _

"Hello, dear, it's me, Tracy from that incident, the one whom you—."

The man coughs in embarrassment. " _ Ach, yes, I remember, my dear, I do. Have you settled nicely in your cottage, then? It's been a few years, now, hasn't it?" _

"Oh, yes," she hums, "very nicely. And a few, yes. Five now."

" _ And _ ," the angel clears his throat,  _ "Mr. Shadwell, as well?" _

"Oh, he's a handful. As always," she laughs, glancing towards the window through which she spots the grumpy man picking at some of her plants clearly disgruntled at something. She lets it slide with a sigh and wave of hand. "And how's Mr. Crowley?"

There's a pause on the other end and though she can't see it, she's sure the man's blushing. " _ He's quite, ah, alright. I presume." _

She chuckles. "Oh, dear, there's no need to hide the nature of your relationship from me!" When no response comes, but neither a disagreement, she takes it as an invitation to continue. "Now, dear, I was wondering if I could pass by, sometime. If you could only be a dear and give me the address of your bookshop, of course. I can guess it vaguely, but I'd rather have confirmation."

" _ Uh _ ," the man stammers. " _ Yes. It'd be quite alright, my dear. Do come over!" _

She isn't sure when  _ sometime _ is, but occasion doesn't spark until well into November when Mr. Shadwell announces he's grown quite bored of the sea and wants to immerse himself into the fumes of London again for a while, and leaves her with the option to follow him or leave it.

She decides to follow him. 

In London, Mr. Shadwell disappears without a word leaving her in St. James' Park and despite the initial disappointment, she quite enjoys the walk in the park, the ducks swimming so near her she instantly regrets not having brought any bread to give them.

She turns to go to a stand that sells sandwiches when her eyes spot a very preoccupied Mr. Crowley in all his long-legged and thin-limbed glory. 

"Mr. Crowley!" she calls out and the man flinches so hard she fears he might trip and fall. His eyes, however cloaked by the dark sunglasses, immediately betray recognition and he beams at her, scrunching up his nose.

"Madame Tracy!" he spreads his arm in lieu of greeting and Tracy is sure she had never seen the man so affectionate. She doesn't question it, though. "I was expecting somebody else, in all honesty," he says sheepishly.

Madame Tracy shoots him a smirk and a wink. "Aye, a gentleman of sorts, eh?"

Mr. Crowley wiggles in his spot and strokes his palms nervously. A few seconds later he seems to register her words and, "Huh?" he says smartly. "I'm sorry, dear, I wasn't following."

"I said you must be expecting a gentleman."

Mr. Crowley nods, humming, then pauses again and glances at her confusedly. "Huh? Oh, yes. Yes. Rather. I mean, yes. I'm expecting a gentleman. A few, actually. They mean to  _ talk _ to me."

The way he says the word  _ talk _ seems to imply a different type of talking, in the negative sense, and suddenly Madame Tracy's entire demeanor changes. Her heart feels so hard for the man standing before her, she decides, on the spot, that she won't let anyone harm him. 

Not today. Not on her watch.

"Forgive my bluntness, dear," she begins and watches as the man purses his hand, straightening his posture as if feigning confidence. "But you appear worried."

The man laughs, and straightens himself even more, his chin high and his jawline suddenly more evidenced by how hard he clenches his teeth. "Perhaps I am, yes. I shouldn't be. Wouldn't be, really, if this weren't the fifth time this year that I've had to have these  _ conversations. _ We kind of hoped we'd have more three time."

Madame Tracy isn't sure what she's nodding to, but she does anyway. "Well, dear, let me invite you to a nice cup of tea, and let us forget about all this ordeal."

The man raises his eyebrows, momentarily entirely shaken by the proposal, but then he relaxes and nods. "Perhaps that'd help."

Nobody bothers them. And when she calls Mr. Fell a few weeks later, Mr. Crowley is alright, so she's glad that was averted at least.

  
  
  


**III — Hastur**

  
  


The two have been sitting on that darned bench for a few hours now, their heads leaning dangerously close towards each other, their hands clasped together and Hastur has had enough of it by now. 

So, yes, he'd agreed to spy on them and see  _ how _ exactly they've been evading them for decades now, but that doesn't mean he's thrilled with having to witness hours and hours on end of a romantic film — he's proud to admit he's finally understood what films are — unfold before him.

Torturously slowly, too. 

They're inseparable, Crowley and Aziraphale. They murmur and whisper and though Hastur doesn't hear them, he's sure it's nothing he'd want to hear.

_ A mute film is always better, anyway,  _ he muses.

He himself is hidden behind a nice old newspaper and he's wearing a ginger wig so he's sure they haven't realised he's spying them, anyway.

Hastur may be many things, but a bad spy is certainly not one of them, afterall. He follows each of their moves so carefully he could write down a book about it. Not that there is much to say.

Crowley and Aziraphale like eating, oddly enough Crowley more so than Aziraphale today, but he supposes that Aziraphale has finally felt self-conscious about body and allowed Crowley a taste of his own poison for once.

Not that Hastur cares. These two can eat themselves to discorporation for all he cares. If only he found a poison good enough to Kill an angel and a demon he'd certainly do it.

And then it hits him like a brick. Well, not a brick. He doesn't like metaphors, anyway. He stands abruptly and after he's sure he's out of the two men's visions he tempts a boy into talking about the Ritz, a simple temptation that he's sure will work, though.

Many things may fall in London, but not that beloved restaurant that the angel especially adores.

He then goes Downstairs. 

"We need someone from Upstairs to pour some holy water into Crowley's champagne, and we'll warm up Aziraphale's food with hellfire, that way it'll be able to kill him, from  _ inside. _ "

The demons before him blink at him several times. Lord Beelzebub is the first to speak up.

"Duke Hastur, did you really think all of this up by yourself?"

He scoffs. "Of course."

In all fairness, he'd seen poisoning ideas of sorts in many films by now and had found them very exciting and now that his mind was working in that direction, he couldn't well stop it.

Lord Beelzebub nodded. "I will call Gabriel now and we'll see what we can arrange."

Hastur feels himself practically bouncing with excitement. This is his moment! His glory! His moment of eternal glory! He'll become Lord, or Prince of Hell, no less. 

By the looks on the other demons' eyes he probably has  _ actually _ bounced, but he can't be bothered by it. He laughs and grins and burns one of the demons eyeing him curiously, then gets ready to go above.

He kills a cook to get his position and wears a blond wig and high heels to deceive anyone passing by in case Aziraphale or Crowley decides to lurk into the kitchen for some question as he's noticed they sometimes do.

When the two finally come, as anticipated, he nearly screams in excitement.

Okay, so he does scream.

The humans around him glare at him and he breaks the skin on his palms trying to hold back on the killing. Not today.  _ I'll kill you tomorrow _ , he promises himself.

The meals Aziraphale and Crowley order are predictable and he pushes aside a cook to heat Aziraphale's meat. He realizes too late he can't kill Aziraphale before Crowley and motions at Gabriel — he isn't sure when he arrived — to spice the water Crowley is bound to drink, instead.

As soon as he's done, he pushes a waiter to bring them their food and gets out of his cook clothes to sit down at the nearest table near Aziraphale and Crowley to observe them.

His glee comes off in waves and claps of hands when he sees Crowley pour himself a glass of water. 

The traitorous demon drinks the water almost at once.

And nothing happens. 

Aziraphale digs his knife deep into the meatloaf, too, and all Hastur's hopes of promotion come crashing when nothing happens to him either.

His wails can probably be heard in Mexico when he bites on his own hand and lets the ground swallow him whole in his shame.

  
  


**+I — Gabriel**

  
  


Gabri isn't used to being deceived as well as the Principality Aziraphale and the demon Crowley deceive him, and yet here he is. Deceived for years, centuries, now. Switching bodies to trick Heaven and Hell into thinking they're one another to protect themselves from Death.

Oh, yes, he's figured it out, now.

And he has a plan. A Plan.

He strokes his hands in anticipation. It's a genius plan, after all.

He's come to realize now in the two hundred years that he's been observing the pair that if there is one certainty about them is that they care about each other, and that they can predict the moments they're going to be attacked, and so they switch. 

But he wants them to switch, wants them not to know what's coming for them.

Gabriel finally knows how to fully punish Aziraphale for betraying Heaven, and, he realizes, Death isn't enough. No, there are worse punishments than Death.

He strolls down the park almost giddily, uncaring whether the pair can see him or not. He has Michael and Uriel parched behind a tree, ready to strike and all he really needs to do is kick a stone and then Aziraphale will be hurt forever. 

Alone, and in pain.

What's worse than that, after all?

A life of eternal loneliness, separated, forever, from his beloved companion, unable to save him, unable to even reach out to him in any way.

_ Oh, he'll be alone. Alone, and very, very scared. _

He grins proudly and sits down on a bench from which he can see Aziraphale and Crowley talking. There is a perfect stone beside him but he decides he wants to watch them for a while, first. Wants Aziraphale to be able, in a way, to relish in his last moments with Crowley.

_ Maybe I'm getting quite sentimental in the old age _ , he laughs and shakes away the thought.

When Aziraphale lays a hand on Crowley's thigh and leans in for a kiss, Gabriel decides it's time. They couldn't be more caught unawares than that.

He kicks the stone and Hell — well,  _ Heaven  _ — breaks loose. Michael and Uriel immediately jump forward and throw the bucket of water at the couple. No way to miss the right one that way, at least.

Screams and wails immediately fill Gabriel's ears and he grins in glee as he watches Aziraphale — Crowley, indeed — tear at his own face, the skin blistering off and smoke hissing away from where he touches, while Crowley — Aziraphale — tries to save him, healing energy waving off him in such a strong capacity Gabriel nearly topples over in his seat.

The demon's entire body seems to be hissing away in smoke, and though the angel desperately grabs at him and brings him to his chest and cries, his wails muted by Gabriel's will not to attract any human observers, nothing works.

They fall to the ground together, Crowley shaking in Aziraphale's arms.  _ Aziraphale's body is somehow protecting Crowley.  _ Then their bodies switch despite Aziraphale's clear efforts for them not to, and Crowley's entire essence finally gives away, his body melting in a puddle of demon and clothes.

Aziraphale perches over the body and starts crying so hard, Gabriel  _ almost  _ feels sorry about his Plan.

But the evil has been defeated, without a trial, without any observers. The just punishment for a traitorous angel.

"The Wicked Witch of the West has been defeated," he chirps in.

The traitorous Principality looks up at him, his reddened eyes filled with so much anger, and sorrow, and pain, he takes an unconscious step back.

" _ Bring him back, _ " Aziraphale says surprisingly calmly, his voice much deeper than he'd ever heard.

"I can't. It was Holy Water, the Holiest. He's now completely gone." Aziraphale's reddened eyes glare holes in him. "Hey, at least you had two hundred years of tricking us, and winning over us, together!"

"We were always  _ worried _ , ever since the first warning we got. We—we— we thought—  _ I  _ assumed we'd have more time. Crow—cro—Crowley warned m—me, but I wou—wouldn't  _ listen. _ " His voice tears and strains and his doubles over in pain. "And now he's gone.  _ Fall me! _ "

Gabriel is taken aback for a moment. "Fall you?"

"Yes. Kick me out, or burn me in Hellfire. Just let me die."

He laughs, then and Michael and Uriel join in. "Oh, no, Aziraphale. We have just now ensured that you will never Fall nor that any demon, ever, will so much as touch you with Hellfire. You're more useful to us alive, after all."

"And in so much pain you'll want to destroy anything," Michael chimes in.

Gabriel nods. "Yes, thank you. Yes. And in so much pain you'll want to destroy this entire world, and that's exactly what we need right now."

An angry Principality.

Aziraphale's shoulders slouch. "To Hell with you," he whines so weakly it's barely hearable. His eyes are still brimming with tears and new ones are also streaming down his face, all his clothes a mess of tears and Holy Water.

And Gabriel has never been happier.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so sorry about all of this. all of this. i'm so sorry, but i had this idea and had to write it. and i do love writing angst, made myself cry a little, too.
> 
> so, yeah, i'm sorry
> 
> signed,  
a rat


End file.
